Houston, we have a problem.
It has recently come to my attention (over a guacamole-laden shrimp taco dinner of a meal with the HBH) that I am not a serious football fan.
Now were this information actually false or a blatant lie, my face would begin to meld into an angry, passionate crimson color, my mouth hurling insults in the general direction of the television set – You know I’m faithful to you every Sunday afternoon …and Monday evening! And sometimes Thursday night! And Saturdays for college ball, come on!
Seeing as this information IS pure truth – and nothing but the truth – my face stays its lightly freckled glory of a pale white and my mouth just smirks in admiration that, after approximately 1255 days of marriage (give or take), my husband has finally figured out the inner workings of his wife.
But let me add a ray or two of sunshine to an otherwise dreary admission:
1. I’ve never missed a Super Bowl. People, there is FOOD to be eaten and there are commercials to be watched. There are deep and enjoyable conversations to be had, and sometimes, if you happen to be sitting in a room with “serious football fans,” there are books to be read until the next four million dollar commercial graces the television screen. [Ahem: The Pioneer Woman: From Black Heels to Tractor Wheels, circa 2011. Ree Drummond, your love story was worth it, sister!]
2. Priorities run deep in my veins. I grew up in Oregon in the 80’s, the child of native Californians who’d migrated north years’ prior (although they didn’t dare tell strangers that truth). Up there, you’re either a Beaver or a Duck, leaving the state to fend for itself when it comes to the big leagues. Naturally, we rooted our way southbound, cheering on Joe Montana and Jerry Rice while stuffing our faces with another scoopful of clam dip, another slice of Little Caesar’s pizza! pizza!
But by the time middle school rolled around, I knew I’d made it to the big leagues when, on that first Sunday of February, the youth group all gathered at Mr. Watson’s house for MUD FOOTBALL (followed by the Super Bowl). Because I mean, what could be more exciting to a 13-year-old than a rain-sopping hour of tackling the opposite sex, even if you never, ever actually did anything worthwhile in the “game” besides dog piling your crush in the mud?
“What are they doing with the ball right now?” my friend, Sara, would ask me.
“Uh, I have no clue,” I’d say, “but …but …DOG PILE!!!” Pointing across the park, we’d rush across the drenched terrain for the ever-growing pile of pubescent beings.
Friends, this is what middle school dreams are made of.
And, like I said, I’ve never missed a Super Bowl.
But as previously stated, there remains a problem with not holding a deep and passionate alliance for all things pig skin: it’s now infringing on my social calendar.
Back to the night of guacamole-laden shrimp tacos:
“So Love,” I say, while fajita juice smoothly dribbles down my chin, “what are our plans for Super Bowl Sunday?”
“Uh, our plans?” The HBH looks guiltily horror-stricken. Apparently the plural part of “our” hadn’t necessarily factored into his afternoon’s festivities.
“Yeah, there’s one invite, but it’s …it’s…” and he pauses, chewing over his words in an effort to not offend his wife, “but it’s for serious football fans.”
I spit out my bite of shrimp taco.
“So I’m not invited then.”
“Uh, that’s correct.”
“And neither is Cancan.”
“Uh, probably not.”
“Well, how am I supposed to get my fill of clam dip and overstuff my face with cheap pizza? How, how? Tell me now!” [I raise my voice, I pound my fists, I stifle a laugh.]
Like I said, we’ve got a serious problem on our hands.
Whatever are we to do? Please weigh in.
I’m desperate (and I don’t have any pending offers of mud football in the works either).
Uh, in other news, who’s free Sunday afternoon? Free clam dip and cheap pizza for all!0